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Columbine, Sandy Hook, San Bernardino, Orlando—the list grows by the day. But these eight women think we can end the cycle of mass shootings. They should know. They were there.
Meet the survivors (from left): Sherrie Lawson, Heather Egeland, Jennifer Hammer, Missy Jenkins Smith, Chloe Quinn, Mary Reed and her daughter, Emma McMahon, and Kristina Anderson. They are gun owners and gun control advocates, policy activists and counselors—but united in demanding change. Says Anderson: "Sadly, in today's world it's dangerous to think, It won't happen to me."
"I heard fireworks."
"It sounded like construction."
*"I figured people were moving furniture around." *Interview the survivors of mass shootings and you hear these phrases a lot: Gunfire, they explain, rarely sounds like what it is, especially in the middle of a work meeting, class lecture, or shopping trip. Even the sight of a shooter spraying bullets can be weirdly confusing, they say. Many who have lived through the terror recall thinking it was a joke. A drill. Anything except the awful truth: that they might have only a few seconds to live.
But these incomprehensible scenes are now our reality. In 2015 there was a mass shooting—defined as an incident in which four or more people are killed—every 16 days on average, from a church in Charleston to a community college in Roseburg, Oregon. Include cases where four or more people are shot, and the figure rises to an unimaginable almost one a day. By the time an emotional President Obama held a press conference in January to announce executive actions intended to reduce gun deaths, it was clear: Something has to change.
So how can we learn from our bloody past? How do we repair our country? Glamour asked those questions of eight women with a painfully unique perspective: All survivors of mass shootings, they've each thought deeply about how to prevent others from going through what they have.
Given their pasts they could easily lock their doors and sign off from public view. But these women are doing the opposite; they're speaking out. It's time we listen. "He walked through the door and started shooting."
Sherrie Lawson, 42, was a business analyst working at the Washington Navy Yard on September 16, 2013, when 12 people were killed and eight injured: I was in a meeting when people ran by, yelling, "There's a shooter!" We were on the second floor, and I started running in my four-inch Kenneth Cole black suede wedges. Outside a police officer was waving her gun, screaming at the top of her lungs for us to go in the opposite direction. We could see the terror in her face. We were hearing very loud gunfire, and I felt the shooter was close, which I later learned he was. There's an eight-to-10-foot brick wall that surrounds the Navy Yard. We knew if we didn't get over it, we'd be sitting ducks. A few men started helping the ladies.
Kristina Anderson, 28, was a student at Virginia Tech on April 16, 2007, when 32 were killed and 23 injured: It was a cold Monday and my friend Colin and I were late to French class. So we ended up in the back left-hand corner of Room 211 in Norris Hall. It sounded something like an ax chopping along the hallway. My teacher leaned into the hallway, then peered back in. Her face fell. She said, "Call 911." I got on the floor and hugged the desk. Once he was in, he was firing. I thought it was a prank, a psychological test the school was doing—you don't want to believe that this is actually happening to you. But he was shooting so quickly and so methodically, his face calm and expressionless. And at that close range, there's not a lot you can do. I felt like my turn was coming when he shot me in the back. Then he left but later returned to see who was alive. Next to me a student was coughing, dying. I just lay there pretending I was dead, but he shot me twice more. There were 18 students in the class, and he killed 11 plus our teacher. It was the worst room in the school. After he finally took his life, I lay on the carpet holding hands with Colin, who'd been shot four times but was still alive, waiting to be rescued.
Jennifer Hammer, 35, was a senior at Columbine High School in Colorado on April 20, 1999, when 13 were killed and 24 injured: Heather and I were both in choir class, although we weren't friends at the time, and a kid came in saying, "Somebody's out there shooting." I couldn't move. I just sat there watching everyone run, until one of the boys grabbed my hand and pulled me into an office, where we spent the next four or five hours. I remember hearing gunshots and screaming and booms, which we found out afterward were pipe bombs. I think there were 60 of us in that tiny space, maybe four by 10 feet. We were scared, we had to go to the bathroom, and it was so hot. Everybody was crying.
Heather Egeland, 34, was a senior at the time of the shooting: We would take turns writing our names on the wall because we thought we were gonna die in there.
Chloe Quinn, 20, is a sophomore in fine arts at Umpqua Community College in Roseburg, Oregon, where, on October 1, 2015, nine were killed and nine injured: We were in biology lab when a professor came in and said, "There is a shooter on campus. You need to go into lockdown." Nobody believed him. No one knew the procedures. When the police came, they evacuated us right past where they were bringing bodies out. They didn't have time to think about how it would affect the students.
Missy Jenkins Smith, 34, was a student at Heath High School in West Paducah, Kentucky, on December 1, 1997, when three were killed and five injured: I'll always regret that I didn't take the time to give my parents a hug that morning, but my twin sister, Mandy, and I wanted to make sure that we got to prayer circle on time. Thirty or 40 of us met in the lobby and held hands. After we prayed, I was heading to class when I saw a girl get shot in the head and fall to the floor. I stared at her, thinking, She's gonna get up. I hadn't seen a 14-year-old boy pull a .22-caliber pistol out of his backpack. Then I heard two slow pops, and it still didn't register with me that it was a gun. I didn't feel the bullet hit me.
Mandy Jenkins, 34, Missy's twin: I had no idea what was going on. I felt a bullet go through my hair, and then I saw Missy on the ground. After I got to her and tried to cover her, I looked up and saw Michael [Carneal] with the gun. Missy kept asking me over and over, "What's happening?"
Jenkins Smith: When she finally told me it was Michael, I could not believe it—he was our friend. After the shooting stopped, my algebra teacher knelt beside me and began to pray. That's when I got really scared. I asked, "Am I gonna die?" And she said, "No, you're gonna be fine." But the girl next to me was moaning, dying. And I watched that until the ambulances came to pick us all up.
Mary Reed, 57, was in a Safeway parking lot near Tucson, Arizona, with her two children on January 8, 2011, when six people were killed and 14 injured: My daughter, Emma, was 17, and she'd worked as a congressional page for [U.S. Representative] Gabrielle Giffords the summer before. Now, being a teenager, did she get a picture for her mother? No, she did not.
Emma McMahon, 22, is now a senior at Wellesley College: So we all went to "Congress on Your Corner," because the congresswoman was going to be there doing a meet-and-greet kind of thing.
Reed: There we were on a bright blue day, waiting in line to get this photo, and we heard fireworks go off. I thought. But then I had a sting in my arm and I tasted gun powder. This is what people don't understand when they talk about open carry: "Oh, it makes us safer." My gunman, in 22 seconds, murdered six people and shot 13 more. There was no time to grab a weapon. There was no thinking. I just threw my daughter against the wall and covered her, and I don't have any recollection of doing it. She tried to curl up into a ball, and I pressed myself against her.
McMahon: She totally covered me with her body.
Reed: He came and stood behind me, and he tried to shoot her head through my other arm. I lost my temper and without letting her go, turned around to face him, thinking, Little man, you better have the freaking cojones to look me in the eye if you're going to shoot me again. And he dropped the gun from my head to my back and fired. I crumpled at that point, and two men tackled him. I could see that Dory Stoddard [a retired construction worker], whom I had just been speaking with 30 seconds ago, had been shot in the head. So I told Emma to call 911.
McMahon: It was a horrific and gory scene. My mom was bleeding pretty profusely. I think I went into shock.
Reed: She kept saying, "Mommy, you can't die, you can't die." And I kept saying, "Sweetheart, I'm not dying." Because I had no intention. I was too mad.
"My picture was all over the news."
Jenkins Smith: My parents found me at the ER, and my other relatives came too. After the doctors told me I was paralyzed (later I learned it was from the chest down), I remember my grandmother crying. I consoled her, saying, "Grandma, I'm still alive." I was, oddly, OK with it. X-rays showed that the bullet had entered through my left shoulder, bounced around, missed every major artery and organ but hit my lung and my spinal cord; then it came out the right side of my back. When they shook my shirt, the bullet fell out. I realized that being 15 years old and paralyzed was nothing compared with being dead. I felt like I was getting a second chance.
Lawson: When I finally got to safety, I borrowed a phone, but I was in such shock I could only remember the last four digits of my mom's cell number. One of my friends, who lived nearby, contacted me on Facebook and told me I could come over. Bless her heart, she opened the door and handed me a bottle of wine and an ice-cream sandwich. A different friend came to spend the night with me so I wouldn't be alone.
Quinn: As we walked out of the science building with our hands on our heads, the press was already there, taking pictures and hunting for people who looked vulnerable, because they wanted a good story. My picture was all over the news. It was incredibly violating.
Anderson: I woke up in the hospital. The news was on, and I instantly recognized myself as the girl in the white shirt being carried out. I thought, How did a photographer get there so fast? Why would someone want to capture the worst day of my life? They never asked my permission. I had a lot of anger because that picture is just everywhere.
Jenkins Smith: I was in the hospital for five months. My recovery wasn't easy. But Mandy stayed with me constantly. She'd sleep in my bed. She wouldn't leave.
Jenkins: The nurse came in one night and didn't know which one of us to cath. [Laughs.] We were so snuggled up.
Jenkins Smith: When they finally put me in a wheelchair, I'd been flat for so long I would feel extremely sick just sitting up. But the flood of support I received from people all over the world—one day I got 600 letters and 45 packages—was completely awesome. It was so uplifting to know there was actually good in the world.
Lawson: We got back to work within two days of the shooting. At first we had a trauma team helping us, but after they left, it was almost like we weren't allowed to talk about the fact that 12 of our colleagues had just been murdered. Everybody had this mentality of "We're strong; we're just going to push through this." But I didn't feel safe. I couldn't stand to hear helicopters. I was still having nightmares every night—I'd be constantly running as somebody was trying to get me. I was starting to feel suicidal.
Egeland: You try to move on and get back to normal, but there are reminders everywhere, new triggers that you don't understand. The first time I was in a fire drill I started crying; I was a wreck. I'd had no memory of the alarm going off the whole time we were trapped in the choir office. I later learned my reaction was normal.
Hammer: And there's survivor's guilt. About a week after the shooting, the police called and said that Eric [Harris, one of the shooters] had a list of girls who had done him wrong, and I was on it. They asked me why. Eric and I had been friends for years, and in high school he'd developed feelings for me, which I did not reciprocate. I have struggled a lot with, Would this have happened if I'd been different with him?
Egeland: Even eight years after Columbine, when I saw the news of the shooting at Virginia Tech, I had such a severe anxiety attack I couldn't go to work. After that I stopped watching the news, all of it.
Anderson: To recover from a shooting literally takes a lifetime.
"I bake pies every anniversary."
Reed: That first year and a half after the shooting, I was so pissed off that I went to each and every court date [of shooter Jared Loughner's legal proceedings] to make sure I felt justice was done. But I also could hear how mentally ill he was. When I gave my victim's impact statement, I looked at him and said, "Mr. Loughner, you're only four years older than my daughter. You exposed her and my 13-year-old to evil. I understand that you're mentally ill, but it's hard for me to forgive you." At that point I let go of my anger—all of it.
McMahon: I started volunteering for Everytown for Gun Safety and advocating for universal background checks to make sure that convicted felons, domestic abusers, and people who are mentally ill can't get their hands on a gun. That could have stopped my mom's shooter. My mom volunteers too.
Reed: And I bake pies. Every year for the anniversary—we just had our fifth—I bake 15 to 30 of them for everyone in the federal justice system who was involved in the case. It's really healing because the anniversary is so hard, you know? I took my kids to a shooting; as a mother I have an inordinate amount of guilt about that.
Lawson: I got a cat at my therapist's recommendation. She's a rescue named Jax—oh, my God, she's been amazing. I had a pretty severe panic attack a week after I got her, and she climbed onto my lap and put her paws around me like she was giving me a hug. She just stayed there until I was OK.
Hammer: The most therapeutic part of my recovery has been starting The Rebels Project with Heather. It's a support group for survivors of all mass shootings. Ten to 25 of us meet every month, and we have nearly 400 people online.
Egeland: It's been so comforting connecting. We've got a big family now that nobody wanted to be a part of, but at least we have each other.
Lawson: The Rebels Project has been a lifesaver to me. I'm only two years out from the Navy Yard shooting, but Heather and Jennifer are 17 years out, and they always say, "It gets better." And it has. I was diagnosed with PTSD and had a mini stroke because of stress. I haven't been able to work for more than a year. I'm financially devastated. I've been on the verge of losing my condo, because I've had to pay out of pocket for all my therapy and medical bills; everything I'd worked for before the shootings has dissolved. But I actually feel like I've turned a corner, to the point where, "OK, Sherrie. Yeah, you lost a lot, but you're still here, and you've got a life to live and you need to live it."
Quinn: I don't know how I would have gotten through this without my boyfriend, Josh. Parents and friends love you, but they weren't there. But Josh was. We shared this experience.
Joshua Friedlei, 19, is a sophomore at Umpqua: When we were separated and about to go into lockdown, I texted her, but for 10 minutes I didn't hear back. I was out of my mind. It's the most helpless feeling not being able to go to her. In those 10 minutes I knew that if she was dead and I hadn't revealed the true extent of my feelings, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
Quinn: Two and a half months after the shooting, he took me to the coast of Oregon in Coos Bay and proposed. We're getting married September 3! We both knew at that point that there wasn't anybody else we wanted to spend the rest of our lives with.
Jenkins Smith: In July of 2007 I went to the penitentiary to visit Michael [the shooter who is serving 25 years to life]. My husband was concerned since I was about to pop with my first child, but he knew it was something I had to do. Mandy came with me. It was difficult. I mean, this was the person I'd considered a friend—we were in band together—and the person who tried to murder me. But we talked for two and a half hours. I told him about my first trip to the movies in a wheelchair, when people kept bumping into me; the cathing I have to do; the trouble dating after I was paralyzed; and because of what he did to me, how I couldn't feel my baby kicking in my womb. He didn't cry, but he did tear up a little bit. When I asked him about what had been in his mind, he said that bullying was a part of it—he thought that if he brought the gun to school, people would respect him and leave him alone. He said he wished he'd told someone what he was going through because maybe he would have made a different decision. And at the very end of our conversation, he said, "I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I'm sorry." I had already forgiven him.
"How do we prevent this from happening again?"
Reed: Here's the thing: I'm a gun owner. I believe in the right to own a gun. But if you do that, you are personally, morally, and should be legally responsible for securing it.
Jenkins Smith: I used to be shy, but after something like this, I had to share my story. So I speak publicly to say: Be proactive. Don't think "this will never happen to me." I also counsel at-risk kids—we need to reach the next Michael before he picks up a gun.
McMahon: I lobby for more sensible gun laws and making comprehensive mental health resources available.
Anderson: I started the Koshka Foundation for Safe Schools and travel all over the country doing active-shooter and preparedness training for educators, students, and employees.
Hammer: Heather and I focus on ongoing emotional support for survivors.
Lawson: And I'd say we have to hold people accountable. Aaron Alexis should never have been able to get secret clearance at a secured Navy facility—he had a history of gun violence. A month before he'd told police he was hearing voices in the wall! There were so many balls that were dropped. In a lot of these cases I don't see anybody really taking responsibility for it. Why aren't we learning from our mistakes? So many deaths could have been prevented.
Jenkins Smith: What's scary to me is that in 1997, when I was shot, mass shootings were so unheard of, and now they're common. But I refuse to live in fear. I almost died that day, but now I work full-time and am a mom of two boys (ages five and eight). Even though I'm paralyzed, I can almost do it all—I wrote a book I Choose to Be Happy because attitude is a choice you make. I've always had hope that research will get me out of my wheelchair; I always say, "I know I'll walk again one day. If not 10 years or 20 years, I'll walk in heaven." But I also believe that it's been God's purpose for me to be a visual reminder of what violence can do.
Reed: Every time I hear about any mass shooting, a Roseburg, a San Bernardino, it truly breaks my heart. I want to go up to each person and say, "I am sorry that I have not had a stronger voice, that I have not been able to change this. And I promise to do better." We are Americans. We are prime problem solvers. We should be able to solve this one.
How to Do Your Part
The organizations championed by the survivors profiled here help with everything from prevention to recovery.
• Everytown for Gun Safety (everytown.org) pushes for sensible gun laws.
• Koshka Foundation for Safe Schools (koshkafoundation.org) teaches corporations and schools how to be prepared for a shooting.
• The Rebels Project (therebelsproject.org) offers support groups immediately following a shooting—and in the days and years after.
*Liz Brody is *Glamour's news director.
